


Moments from the Adult Lives of the Holmes Brood

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Married Life, Old Married Couple, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her parents meanwhile are arguing over God knows what, it could genuinely be anything, and Lucy is paying almost no mind to it when she happens to catch the look on Papa's face as he throws out a comment that makes Dad growl in aggravation. "<i>Oh my God</i>," she says, and possibly it was a little dramatic, because the table falls silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments from the Adult Lives of the Holmes Brood

**Author's Note:**

> It's truly ridiculous how much Skip and I love these characters. Just. Ridiculous.

1.  
"Oh my God." Lucy says loudly. "Someone was willing to procreate with _you_?"

Andrew glares at her. "Shut up, Lucille."

She looks like she's trying not to laugh, which is absolutely infuriating. Monica is next to her, shocked, the hand she has over her mouth making her eyes look enormous. Kaden's standing behind their dad, literally gaping open-mouthed at him, and Dad is staring like he genuinely does not understand the language Andrew is speaking.

The expression on Papa's face is making Andrew feel like he's all of ten years old, caught trying to experiment with sounds waves by using his father's irreplaceable violin, not the twenty six year old doctoral student he is. It is not a good feeling.

"What?" Dad asks, his voice very, very low, and more than a little bewildered.

Andrew winces. "It was a mistake."

Lucy snorts. "I'm sure that's what she's thinking."

" _Shut up, Lucille._ "

"Stop calling me that, you're not my father--"

" _Do you have no common sense?!_ " his dad explodes, and Andrew grimaces so hard he can barely see.

"It just happened!" he tries to protest. "It's not like we planned it -- and I told her to get rid of it but she didn't listen-"

" _Andrew Holmes!_ " Dad bellows.

Andrew flails desperately, completely at sea. For fuck's sake, it only took six mediocre minutes to ruin the rest of his life. It may be a moot point though, the way both his parents look ready to string him up at any moment.

His father's been worryingly quiet, actually, since announcing the news to the room at large when Andrew was going to break gently to them after dinner. His restraint can't mean anything good.

"What's her name?" Monica asks, finally pulling her hand from her face.

"Um, Dunn."

Monica looks at him sideways, then rolls her eyes fast. "I mean her first name."

Andrew shrugs, annoyed by the non-sequitur. "What does it matter?" She's just one of his assistants, and until all this happened he'd mentally called her 'the one with the annoying crush'.

Lucy makes a sound that is halfway to a laugh, but smothers it under her hand. Andrew glances at her but she's looking at Dad -- who is looking like he's going to start walloping Andrew any second now. "I'll do the right thing." Andrew tries to appease him.

"What, _learn her name_?" Dad snaps.

"Among other things," Andrew stutters out, scratching at the back of his neck. _Say something_ , he mentally pleads with this father. The longer he holds out the more devastating the response is going to be, and at this point not only Andrew but the house itself might not survive the explosion.

"I can't believe this," Dad says.

"How far along is she?" Monica asks sensibly.

"You shouldn't be allowed to father a child--" Lucy comments waspishly.

" _Andrew,_ " Papa says, shutting the room down. Everyone but Dad -- who is too busy glaring at Andrew -- looks at him, because that tone means nothing good. " _Descendre au bureau._ "

Andrew gulps and looks to his Dad for some sort of salvation, to no noticeable effect. His shoulders slump and he turns to head towards the downstairs office. As he goes he can hear Kaden say excitedly, "I'm going to be an uncle!" and really, Andrew's never going to make it out of the downstairs office alive.

" _Assois-toi,_ " his father says, waving a hand dismissively without bothering to turn around. His tone is polite but that means absolutely nothing. Andrew rubs his face and sits.

A second later his dad storms in, limping heavily, and this also means nothing good for Andrew. He keeps telling himself he's a full grown man, he doesn't have to answer to his parents, he doesn't have to feel like a primary student anymore. And he's right, he doesn't feel like a primary student; he feels like a foolish, stupid preschooler.

"As you might have guessed, we're not exactly thrilled with this news, Andrew," his father says, turning to sit on the sofa and face him. Andrew bites back the urge to say, _You're speaking in French, I'm as good as dead._

His dad says it from his march back and forth behind the sofa instead. "English, Sherlock."

"This is what you're going to do," his father says, switching languages smoothly. His demeanor is like some kind of large, dangerous predator, and Andrew finds that reminding himself he's two inches taller than his Papa helps precisely not at all, because his father knows exactly how to take someone, _anyone_ , down at the knees. "You are going to go and find out this woman's _name_ ," and his pause here is horrendous, horrifying, Andrew prays for clemency. "You are going to find out why she wants to have this child, and then you are going to make sure you haven't screwed this up so completely that she kicks you out of it's life."

Andrew nods sharply.

Dad marches around the sofa to sit next to Andrew's father, scowling fiercely. " _How_ can you get someone pregnant and then not bother to find out her name?"

Andrew waves his hands up in supplication "I-- I had other things on my mind!"

"Name them," his father orders.

Andrew blanches. "I can't -- I’m involved in a lot of projects, Dad! There are lots of people I work with, I can't keep track of them all--"

"And exactly how many of them are you sleeping with?" his father presses. "Because if we're going to have this conversation again--"

"NO, no, God, no." Andrew takes a moment to suck in some air, because apparently he's also forgotten that breathing is a necessary function to live. "This was a one-time deal. I'm not, God no. No."

"You're barely twenty-six, and I know for a fact all the food you've got in your flat are three containers of takeaway, a box of wine that went off a month ago and some chutney," his dad snaps, his eyes still flashing. 

"It's not like it's coming over this weekend, I have time to go shopping!" he argues. "And I'm not ever going to have it over at my place any-- um, anyway..." He trails off as it becomes obvious that this, too, is very much the wrong thing for him to be saying, when his papa explodes into full-force French and his dad looks about ten seconds from killing him with his bare hands.

 

2.  
One beautiful April morning, on a rare, quiet Sunday, Beau Franco went to a coffee shop near Convent Garden, ordered a frou-frou latte, and sat down to do some good old fashioned thinking.

He wasn’t an unintelligent man, who needed the coffee and the quiet Sunday morning and the shop to get his thinking out of the way, but in light of the circumstances he felt it would be the only way he’d find peace and quiet enough to get all those messy emotions he would never admit to feeling in some semblance of order. 

So, Beau sipped his latte (brought to him with the milk in a leaf pattern, and which he would never in a million years admit to enjoying), and people watched (with their Macbooks and their hipster hats and their nearly overwhelming stench of pretentiousness), and did his thinking. He thought about his life along the seam of ‘before’ and ‘after’ -- living in Peoria, where he’d worked and trained and been the best damn cop on the force. He thought about his partner, and his unit, and his little bachelor pad on the river. He thought about TV, bad sitcoms and Monday night football, and the little bar on the street under his apartment that served the best cheese fries he’d ever eaten in his entire life. He thought about his mother.

He’d given up a lot to come to England. His buddies at Peoria PD were probably still talking about him, the crazy guy that had literally upended his entire life to come halfway across the world for warm beer and pub crawls and really, really bad pizza. Even two years after the fact Beau wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. The joint murder/suicide they’d investigated with the MET hadn’t exactly been glamorous, but the detectives had been at a level he hadn’t believed he’d be able to achieve in Peoria, or even in the States. A week after they’d left with their dead body Beau had decided, from one breath to the next, that London was where he had to be. The rest, as they say, was history.

And crazy enough, upending his life and moving to England had been an easier choice than the one he was facing -- than the one he already knew the answer to.

He waved to get her attention as she passed by the window -- stunning in her coat and scarf and her cloud of dark hair. He didn’t know how it was possible that she could be more beautiful every time he saw her, as if his mind were playing tricks on him.

“I thought you might be here,” she opened, giving him a look. Even after all this time he was always so surprised by her rich, lilting English accent. Seemed pretty fitting that such a beautiful woman would have a voice like that, warm and melodious. “Sunday was supposed to be our sleeping-in day.”

He smiled, pushed his half-finished latte across to her. “No, Sunday was _your_ sleeping in day, and my running-at-the-gym day.”

“Which explains why you’re sitting here having a ridiculously overpriced coffee I could have made for you at home.” Despite her words she took a sip, eyes narrowing with pleasure. 

“Sometimes I can have overpriced coffee,” he said, and reached across the table to lace their fingers together. “Sherlock called early this morning.”

Just like always, she went still at the mention of him. “Did you talk to him?”

“We had a pretty interesting conversation.” He paused. “It’s time for me to meet them, Monica.”

He knew why he hadn’t -- respected Monica’s decision, even if he didn’t agree with it. The very suggestion had already soured her expression, made her mouth twist down at the corner. “What exactly are you scared of, babe?” he asked. “Or do you not think this is going to last? Is that why you don’t want me to meet your parents?”

It hurt -- he couldn’t deny that, though Monica’s reaction went a long way in making him feel better. She squeezed his hand tightly, brought it to her lips. “No, that’s not -- it isn’t that, nothing like that.”

He nodded. “Good. That’s good, because it’s for real, Monica. This, what we’ve got going.”

He reached into his pocket, took out a small velvet box, and set it on the table between them.

He stared at Monica as her eyes filled with tears, as the pulse in her wrist jumped under his fingertips. “I’d like to meet them. And your sister, and your brothers, and your dog, and Mrs. Hudson. I’d like to get to know your family.”

 

3.  
Lucy's only just turned twenty-seven a week ago, and for once everyone in the family is in the same country at the same time, so she's completely unsurprised when this results in a mass text message from her papa. He makes it sound like an edict, announcing they're having dinner as a family and those who do not show will be hunted down like animals and forcibly dragged in. Lucy rolls her eyes but shows up on time anyway, Peter nervously adjusting his bowtie next to her.

The house in Sussex is spacious but comfortable, with enough of Grandmummy's more important pieces scattered about to make it effortlessly posh. And as they sit down to eat Lucy can admit it is nice to finally get a look at the kid Kaden's been seeing, and even more hilarious to see her Dad trying not to put his gun on the table, 'accidentally' pointed in the kid's direction. Jeremy -- Jeffrey? -- looks like he's afraid to take a deep breath lest he get tossed out a window. Then everyone else files in and in no time it's all noise and food and long-standing arguments picked up again. Beau is chatting with Andrew about blood splatter patterns, and Lucy tells Monica about her trip to LA while Peter kindly listens to Kaden rehash what his first day at his new school was like for the millionth time and that kid -- God, she really needs to get his name -- blushes horribly every time Kaden mentions him.

Her parents meanwhile are arguing over God knows what, it could genuinely be anything, and Lucy is paying almost no mind to it when she happens to catch the look on Papa's face as he throws out a comment that makes Dad growl in aggravation. " _Oh my God_ ," she says, and possibly it was a little dramatic, because the table falls silent.

"What?" Peter asks, worried, but Lucy can only look between her parents in shock and disgust. "Ugh. You're _enjoying-- oh my God you two_."

"You two what?" Dad asks, and he looks confused but Papa just has an eyebrow raised, giving the game away completely.

"You're not fighting, you're _flirting_ , oh my God all these years -- every time we thought you were having a row about something it was just--" She shudders as the horrible truth of it assaults her brain. Her dad is turning bright, bright red, like he's stuck right halfway between embarrassment and hilarity. Her papa just looks smug, which is honestly nauseating.

"You mean that time you had a massive blow out about parent-teacher night?" Monica asks, similarly horrified. Beau looks between them all and calmly goes back to his food, a 'not my division’ expression pasted on his face.

"Or the time when Papa ruined all the electronics in the house at once?" Andrew adds.

"No, that one was a real fight," Dad finally interjects, looking a little like he wants to sink into the floor.

Papa looks around and the table and sighs, though he's clearly still amused under it all. "I really fail to see the problem."

"I don't need any visual evidence that you two are -- are--" She can't even get the words out. Peter pats her shoulder consolingly, but she can tell he's entertained too, the traitor.

"I walked in on them making out in the kitchen last week." Kaden adds, wide-eyed. "It was _horrible_." He makes it sound like torture. The boyfriend looks like he thinks he's in the Twilight Zone.

"Brain bleach," Monica says, and Andrew tells Kaden, "That's happened to all of us, because they have absolutely no morals or shame."

"Excuse me," Papa starts, finally looking offended.

"Can we please go back to dinner?" Dad pleads, but everyone ignores him.

 

4.  
"Kaden, for heaven's sake." Sherlock snaps, despairing. The child is possibly the most absent-minded human being on the planet. It's like they're raising Mister Bean. Sherlock and Kaden had discussed this countless times, at great -- _great_ \-- length. They'd gone over every possible outcome, every potential question.

Sherlock has not a doubt in his mind that Kaden has already forgotten it all.

John, meanwhile, looks pole-axed, like fish are flying and birds are swimming and man is walking on his head. Sherlock thinks of his bees, dreams of a sudden swarm descending on the house _en mass_ , anything to get him out of this conversation.

"That-- you can't -- _what_?" John stutters out.

"I'm _gay_ , Dad." Kaden repeats, a stubborn, desperate set coming into his jaw. "Jeremy is my _boyfriend_ , not my friend."

Sherlock rubs at his face so he doesn't have to see John trying to swallow his tongue. "Your boyfriend," he says, and Sherlock looks up to see his husband turn an alarming shade of white. "You have a -- excuse me, wait a tic, we had you here, _by yourself_ , with your _boyfriend_?"

"The salient point," Sherlock intervenes, before that line of questioning can end up in groundings and cursing and the procurement of entirely too much information about their son's proclivities, "is that your son is trying to establish his sexual identity."

"He doesn't have a sexual identity!" John snarls, whirling around to glare up at Sherlock. "He's too young for a sexual -- sexual anything! He's just trying to drive me barmy, that's all this is, aren't you?" He turns to look back at Kaden.

Kaden looks worried, nervous, far too vulnerable. Sherlock tries to project to him the importance of not looking like the helpless infant John rescued when simultaneously making a ploy for independence, but going by the 'confused' expression Kaden sends him back (a look that always appears more constipated than unsure) it has gone right over his head. Sherlock throws up his hands and collapses on the sofa.

"Kaden you're so young, much too young to be thinking about things like that, you need--"

"I'm fifteen, Dad!" Kaden argues, further sabotaging his own argument when his voice cracks. "I'm fifteen and I like _boys_ and I like Jeremy and--"

"I can't hear this, I cannot actually listen to another word of this," John snaps back. Sherlock lies there and lets the argument wash over him.

"You're awful--"

"You're impossible!"

"You're such a _jerk_!" Kaden shouts, which is about as mean as he gets. Sherlock despairs; he has no idea how one of his children ended up so bloody _nice_. Kaden stomps towards his room, and John stomps towards the kitchen, and Sherlock lies on the sofa in a suddenly empty room.

"Bloody brilliant," he says to the air.

" _Sherlock_!" John hollers from the kitchen. Sherlock sighs and goes to see to his husband. 

 

.

That Dad doesn't take well to the news that he's gay is an understatement.

Kaden had kind of, sort of already known he wouldn't. Dad wasn't like Papa, who was always so laid back about this kind of stuff. When Papa had seen him and Jeremy holding hands he hadn't even yelled, just asked a lot of really, _really_ embarrassing questions that had made Kaden blush really, really hard. The next day Papa had asked even _more_ questions, and gave Kaden a book called _Sixteen and Gay_ , and Kaden had just wanted to crawl under a rock and die, just _die a million deaths_ , because Papa had to have gone to the bookstore in town, which meant _everyone_ knew it was _him_ being sixteen and gay. Not that he cared, he was proud of being himself, but he didn't want everybody and their mom knowing about it yet.

After he tells Dad, things in their house get kind of tense. Dad's going for his surgery soon, and Kaden hadn't even wanted to say anything, he'd just been so _mad_ , and weird inside of his stomach, because... because Kaden was old enough to know sometimes people died in surgery, and he didn't want something to happen to Dad and Kaden hadn't been honest with him, he couldn't _live_ with himself if that happened. Just the thought of something happening anyway makes his throat get tight and his eyes burn and he blinks fiercely until it stops.

Dad isn't mad at him -- at least, not like he usually is. Kaden is often in trouble because he left dishes everywhere, or clothes everywhere, or his school stuff everywhere, so it isn't like that, when Dad is exasperated and giving him The Eye. It's not even like when Kaden had missed curfew two nights in a row _through no fault of his own_ , and he'd gotten grounded with no telly and no internet. This kind of mad isn't even directed at him. Or, well, at least mostly.

And Kaden doesn't get it, that's the worst part, because hello, _Dad is gay_. At least, kind of. So is Papa, and they've been gay together for a long, long time, _forever_. Not that they're really like the gay he is, anyway -- they're just old fashioned and normal and his parents, and it feels weird thinking about them gay in any sort of capacity. Gay is for being young and hot, not old and not.

Jeremy is so cool about it; Kaden thought Papa might have scared him off, but instead Jeremy gives him his scarf to wear for good luck, and sings him _The Way You Look Tonight_ from the Broadway show _Sinatra_ , because he remembered Lucy was doing it this year, and Kaden almost forgets about his dad's reaction because he is so in love it actually hurts inside his chest.

"He hasn't even looked at it," he says, throat tight and achy. "I just don't know what I did."

" _You didn't do anything_ ," Monica says reassuringly. " _It's just that Dad has never taken too well to... well, people. Haven't you ever noticed?_ "

"Well yeah." Kind of hard not to. Their dad was not what anyone would call a 'people person', and his siblings had reassured him it had only gotten worse as he'd gotten older. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

" _Kaden,_ " Monica says with a sigh. " _You were still little when I met Beau, so maybe you don't remember -- Dad scared the hell out of him._ "

Kaden tries to picture Beau -- six and a half feet tall, and a bad ass cop besides -- as anything other than mildly perturbed and comes up short. "He _what?_ "

" _Oh yeah. Dad is scary. You wouldn't actually believe it unless you saw it in action, it was totally impressive._ " Monica pauses, taking a sip of coffee. " _And the same thing happened with Peter, he didn't actually look at Dad in the face for two straight years. With Andrew it was his first girlfriend, that Melanie girl, you remember? What I'm trying to say is, Dad did this with all of our partners, Kaden -- you're just special because you're the baby, and on top of that you had to go and be gay._ "

"I can't help that," Kaden says, flopping backwards onto his bed. "It's like a war here, you don't understand."

" _I do understand, which is why the answer is no, you aren't coming over here for the weekend. You're going to stay there and deal with your issue, because it isn't going to go away so long as A, you're gay, and B, Dad is breathing_." Monica is smiling through the phone. " _I love you baby. Good luck._ "

Luck is exactly what he needs, because no other force on this earth is going to save him, he realizes. Dad and Papa are having some kind of standoff that necessitates lots of banged pots and pans and lots of slammed doors, and Kaden has a feeling it isn't entirely about him. To call their house 'tense' is an understatement, and Kaden doesn't actually _mean_ to make it worse, it's just that they're at the dinner table that night, and Papa and Dad are doing battle with their eyes, and Kaden can't actually take the tension for one more second and blurts, "Can I invite Jeremy to dinner tomorrow?"

It breaks the tension nicely. By putting it all on _him_. "What?" Dad demands, at the same time Papa says, "Of course."

"Now wait a minute," Dad interrupts, all steel. "What, exactly, do you mean by that? Joseph coming here? To eat?"

"Jeremy. And yeah, if... if that's okay." He eyes his dad nervously, because he looks about t-minus ten seconds from imploding, and Dad is kind of frail right now, and -- "Forget it. Never mind," he says, and feels a humiliating wave of tears come up in his throat. He fingers his scarf at the hem, looking down at it until his throat stops hurting.

"Kaden--" Dad starts, in his 'I'm being reasonable' voice. He pauses, staring at him, and then at Papa, who's looking at him in a way Kaden has never quite been able to decipher. "Fine. It's -- I suppose it's fine. It'll be the perfect opportunity to discuss things with his parents."

"His parents?" Kaden blurts, shrill. "What?"

"Parents. Two of them. Or one, depending," Dad replies in what Andrew had always called Dad's 'captain of her majesty's royal army' voice. He doesn't even ruin it by standing up and wobbling once on his cane until he gets his balance. "Six o'clock tomorrow."

"But Dad--"

"No buts. No parents, no dinner," Dad says, and stomps into the kitchen.

Kaden stares after him so hard that he jumps when Papa comes around the table, plate in hand, to squeeze his shoulder and drop a kiss into his hair. "Go do your homework," he says, and Kaden, even more confused than before, goes.

 

.

Kaden calls Jeremy later that night, after the house has finally settled. He’d checked to make sure the light had gone out under Dad and Papa’s door before curling up under his covers and hitting ‘1’ on his mobile (in a fit of pique, Papa had been relegated to ‘2’ and Dad to ‘99’). Just hearing Jeremy’s voice makes everything nauseous and awful settle down.

“ _I wasn’t expecting you to call,_ ” Jeremy whispers down the line; he’s curled up in bed too, and the only reason they aren’t in the middle of a texting session is because Jeremy’s little brother is staying at a friend’s house. It makes Kaden miss his own brother and sisters, but at the same time feel a little relieved. He doesn’t know how his brother and sisters did it when they were teens and Kaden was the annoying kid brother. “ _I thought you’d be halfway to the railway station by now._ ”

“Why?”

“ _Isn’t that what always happens in the movies?_ ” Jeremy says, with that wonderful teasing-ness in his voice. It makes Kaden grin and hug himself -- how could he be this lucky? “ _The parents of the beloved heroine don’t approve of her relationship with the lowly garden hand, so she runs away with him to Tuscany to grow a vineyard_.”

“Last I looked, I wasn’t a heroine and you weren’t a garden hand.”

“ _Close enough, isn’t it? You’re beautiful, with that dark hair and those long eyelashes_ ,” Jeremy says, smiling, “ _and a Lord besides. And I’m the lowly, public school nobody trying to steal your heart_.”

Kaden laughs, muffling it into his pillow until he can get it under control. He peeks up from the covers and checks the door, just in case -- still closed and dark. “Who says you haven’t stolen my heart already?”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Jeremy whispers. “ _Maybe I have. In that case, I think that we can get through dinner together. A united front, right?_ ”

“Exactly,” Kaden whispers back. “I don’t know why my dad is having such a heart attack over this, and I apologize in advance for all the crazy he’s going to inflict on you and your mom. You’d think, right, I mean, he and my Papa have been married since forever. I don’t get it.”

“ _I think it’s sweet_ ,” Jeremy says. “ _It means he loves you and wants to protect you. I wish my dad had been like that_.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” Kaden says. Who ever heard of someone getting beat up because they were gay? That kind of thing happened forty years ago, not _now_. “I don’t know what my dad would do if something like that happened to me. It wouldn’t be good,” he says, wincing. “We’d have to move for sure.”

“ _I’ve seen your dad you know_ ,” Jeremy says with a giggle. “ _He doesn’t seem the type, Kay_.”

“You clearly don’t know my dad,” Kaden replies with a shudder. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the dinner, my stomach is all in knots just thinking about it.”

“ _But your dad said he wanted to meet me, right? Don’t worry so much. I think it’s sweet, and besides, it’ll be a chance for your parents to see that I’m like, not kidnapping you or anything_.”

“My dad hates musical theater,” Kaden admits. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“ _Hey, shh_ ,” Jeremy murmurs. “ _It’s going to be fine, okay? Stop worrying so much about it. Mom is great, and your parents are great. What could go wrong_?”

Kaden groans, then freezes when he hears a creak from the hallway floorboard outside his room. He waits, breathless, for it to happen again. When it doesn’t, he decides to be on the safe side anyway and tells Jeremy, “I should probably go.”

“ _Yeah, me too. Don’t worry so much about this, okay? Get some sleep. I’ll meet you at the big tree tomorrow_.”

“Like always,” Kaden says.

There’s a pause, a long pause. 

“ _I love you_ ,” Jeremy murmurs. “ _Night, Kaden_.”

“Night,” Kaden breathes, and presses his mobile against his chest until his heart stops racing.

 

5.  
Sherlock really should have seen it coming. John is utterly rubbish at keeping secrets, so he couldn't have known, and in any case this has their children's fingerprints all over it. It figures the only lesson they would pick up from Sherlock was subterfuge.

"Will you _stop_ with that racket?" he demands, to no noticeable effect. If anything they just get louder -- it's hard to tell, considering how bloody noisy they are to begin with. They could probably hear Kaden alone halfway across Sussex. He accepts, resignedly, that Mrs. Henderson will be ringing any minute now.

They finally wind down, and Lucy places the cake in front of him with an utterly unnecessary flourish. "Blow out the candles."

He gives her a baleful look. "This is ridiculous."

She gives him his mother's look back, sharp and impatient. "Blow them out _now_."

He huffs through his nose, accepts defeat, and blows out the candles. Everyone cheers. Sherlock contemplates mass murder.

John is sat next to him at the dining room table, cackling in a horribly unattractive manner. "Welcome to sixty, love," he stutters out between chuckles, then leans over to kiss Sherlock's temple.

"Wonderful, celebrations are finished and I need to tend to my bees," Sherlock answers. He starts to stand but Franz comes up on Sherlock's side and shoves him back into his seat, without any apparent effort. "I made your favorite," he says blandly. You _will_ eat it, he doesn't say, because that's already understood.

"It's just another year," Sherlock protests to the room at large. "There's no reason for this nonsense."

"You are _such_ a grinch," Lucy says, sitting across from him. "Sixty is massively important! You’re practically one foot in the grave." Behind her Patrick -- Parker? No, that was the less obnoxious friend with the terrible hair --

"Peter," John says under his breath, following Sherlock's line of sight,

\--is standing awkwardly, unsure of whether he should take the liberty and sit too.

"Thank you for that," Sherlock snipes. She gives him a huge, silly grin back. He restrains himself from rolling his eyes, but only because he's having a massive slice of cake shoved two inches of his nose.

"Happy Birthday, Sir," Beau says. Sherlock glares; Beau smiles placidly back. He's always been the most easygoing of the children's partners, even compared to Margery, who’s known them since childhood. John says he appreciates Beau's even-tempered attitude; on occasions like this Sherlock most certainly does not.

When Sherlock makes no move to touch the cake John takes it for him. Beau sits next to Monica, instantly turning them back into the striking pair they always make. Monica grins at Sherlock, who sniffs imperiously.

Monica is next to Kaden, who wisely decided not to bring Jeremy to this particular event -- Mycroft may not have John's irrational bloodlust for the boy but his intensive attention was just as unsettling to the uninitiated, and like much everyone else who had been around during Kaden's early kidnapping episode, he was _incredibly_ overprotective. Kaden's smile is still childish, innocent, and wholehearted; he looks so utterly thrilled by the festivities Sherlock is instantly aware this was his idea.

There's Mycroft with his wife, Lestrade and his wife, Gregson and Dimmock and what looks like half the London Met, even a few members of the Sussex PD they haven't frightened off yet. It's utter chaos, an explosion of talking and laughing and general revelry. Sherlock wasn't aware there were this many people interested in his continued existence, and really has no idea what to do with the information, is working with no real previous experience. The few dreadful birthday parties his mother had attempted in his early childhood had been rather ill-attended, and he'd been steadfastly against the idea as an adult. 

Baby George is sat on John’s lap, gurgling cheerfully. John is slipping him spoonfuls of icing when Andrew's back is turned, a mischievous expression on his face. Sherlock can't help but smile when the baby snags a spoonful with his hand and immediately wipes it across his entire face and into his hair. "Good luck explaining that," he murmurs.

"It's his grandfather's birthday, he has to celebrate," John says easily, as beautiful now as he’d been when he was thirty three and bulldozed his way into Sherlock’s life, sending all of Sherlock’s preconceived notions of what life had to offer out the window. "He's just as happy to see you descend into decrepitness as the rest of us.”

"Keep talking, this icing will hit you next," Sherlock threatens, but John doesn’t look worried at all. No one seems to be paying them much mind, and in light of the circumstances Sherlock can do nothing but kiss his husband, soundly, even when the catcalls begin.

 

6.  
Lucy creeps up the steps to the flat, carefully avoiding the creaking ninth step, the loose floorboard by the front door. She eases the front door open, peeks around, into the sitting room. It took her until she was almost fifteen to be able to sneak up on her parents with any success at all, and at twenty it hasn't gotten old yet. She can't wait to surprise them, back home a week early, and with good news too.

"Sherlock!" 

Her dad's yell is coming from the direction of their bedroom; her father's immediate response, "There's no need to bellow in my face, John," gives Lucy the heads up that it's safe to inch further into the room.

"You can't possibly be planning to accept that," Dad says. "What on earth would we even do with it?"

Her father murmurs something she's pretty sure ends with, "My dear John," and she edges closer to the kitchen, ears peeled as he keeps speaking. "All these years, and you're still so very quaint," Papa says. Lucy feels her eyes widen, because if she's heard her Papa talk in that tone before she certainly doesn't remember it. If she didn't know better, she'd say he sounded _besotted._

She peers into the kitchen. They're standing against the side of the fridge, her dad with his back against it, her father leaning over her dad with one arm pressed against the top edge. He looks like the boys she remembers from secondary, cocky football players who would try and flirt with the girls between classes. Dad looks nonplussed but she can tell that's an act from the slight lift to his mouth, the suppressed smile. Her dad is thoroughly amused.

"You're giving it back," he says firmly.

"Or what?" Papa asks, smiling. _Utterly besotted_. It's unbelievable.

Her parents always just sort of _were_. They argued and complained and sent Lucy and her siblings to one or the other with errands and requests, and sure they kissed (way more often than Lucy needed to witness), but it was always familiar, always comfortable. Dad took stoic Briticism to a whole other level, and Papa saved most of his passion for his cases -- she had no doubt he loved her and her siblings endlessly but he was never very silly, or goofy. Lucy had always felt that that was right, because Papa was _special_ , he was... he was a bit above it all. Right then he looks like the men in romantic comedy ads, period romance dramas. She forgot, sometimes, that just being around her dad could make her father _happy._

"Or I'll make you deal with Gregson on your own next time," Dad threatens cheerfully, something Lucy has only ever seen him pull off. Papa leans in close and says something she can't hear; Lucy takes her cue and backs up just as carefully as she came in, treads silently down the steps. When she gets to the bottom she opens the door and slams it as hard as she can, the way she always does.

She can surprise them next time. 

 

7.  
The only reason Andrew's even home still is because he has to get the baby ready for nursery, and that takes at least a half an hour. Andrew is one of the most brilliant minds in the western hemisphere, there was an article in _Time_ about it eight months ago, he should be able to streamline the process, but no. He gets nothing but defiance from his son, fat and short and gifted with dark curly hair, huge green eyes. It's like living with his father all over again, only with more spit-up.

They both start when there's a strong series of knocks on the door, and there's only one person who knocks like that. "Nooo," Andrew breathes, looking down at his son. He _has_ to get to work, he can't have magically summoned the man, life doesn't work that way--

"Andrew Holmes, open this door."

Andrew looks up at the ceiling for strength. He picks up his son so he doesn't roll off the bed (a sorry mistake he'd made once or maybe twice) and plods to the front door, pulling off the deadbolt to open it. "Hello, Father."

"Give me my grandson," Papa says, all but snatching the baby from Andrew's arms. Andrew's son loves his grandparents, who are content to, among other things, stuff him full of food until he explodes, and then leave Andrew to pick up the mess. The baby gurgles, makes a happy noise, and snatches at his grandfather's scarf, immediately stuffing it in his mouth. "I still say these could be the early signs--"

"My son does not have pica," Andrew snaps. He goes to shut the door behind his father but it hits something. Andrew looks around and _feels_ his eyes widen. "Why do you have a suitcase?"

"I'll be staying with you for the foreseeable future," Papa says easily, sitting on the couch.

Andrew gapes at him for half a minute before he remembers what words are. "Where's Dad?"

Papa makes a derisive noise. "At home, where else."

"Why aren't you with him?" Andrew asks carefully. He leaves the suitcase and the door as they are; maybe that will somehow make his father's departure more likely.

"Because he's proven himself dishonest and I will not be made a fool," Papa says, the look on his face belying the calm words.

Andrew has never heard a more ridiculous statement. His dad was probably the most trustworthy person on the planet. "What did he do?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Papa says, and eyes his grandson's outfit with distaste. "I bring you better clothes for him, what is this disgrace?"

Andrew rolls his eyes. "It's clean, Papa, and he doesn't care." Papa himself looks pristine as always, but that's nothing new -- so long as Lucy keeps sending him designer cardigans from Paris he's going to keep wearing them.

"It's unacceptable," his father retorts, and stands up, carting the baby down the hall. Andrew's phone rings and his father calls back, "Don't answer that!"

"Hello?" Andrew says wearily, answering.

" _Tell your father to get his idiotic arse home right this minute_ ," his dad snaps through the phone.

_Strength_ , Andrew thinks. _Give me strength._

 

.  
It takes Andrew fifteen minutes to get his dad off the phone, fourteen of those minutes spent with his parents yelling their argument at each other _through_ him. They're not actually explaining what it is they're arguing about, so it's just a nonsensical back and forth at a painfully high volume. By the time Andrew hangs up he's dizzy.

And almost immediately his phone rings again. There's no way it's not connected to the morning's brouhaha, so Andrew, despite his wishes, picks up.

" _What the hell is going on?_ " Monica opens.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Andrew sighs, running a hand through his hair. In the other room Andrew's son is laughing in utter glee at whatever Andrew's father is doing -- which makes Andrew despair, because no doubt he'll once again be on cleanup duty. "How do you even know about this?"

" _I got a phone call from the Sussex PD_ ," Monica says, annoyed. " _Apparently Mrs. Henderson caught the tail end of an 'episode' on the lawn, and called the locals on them for disturbing the peace and indecent exposure_."

" _What?_ " Andrew says, horrified. Mrs. Henderson lived down the lane from their parents, and was according to their father an invasive old windbag and a snoop. Dad called her lonely and a snoop, as though that were somehow kinder.

" _I don't know either_." Monica sighs. " _Constable Perkins recognized the name and gave me a ring, asked me to sort it out for them, the cowards. I called Dad and he ranted at me for fifteen minutes, none of which made any kind of sense, and then he hung up on me to ring you_."

"I don't get it either," Andrew says, his confusion giving way to sheer aggravation. "Papa says Dad's lying about something, only Dad says that's bollocks, and--"

" _Yeah_ ," Monica cuts in. " _He said to me ‘it’s my personal business,' at which point I blocked out his voice so I wouldn't lose my breakfast_."

Andrew grimaces at the phone. "Look, I need to call in to work, but do you have a plan for this? Papa can't stay at my house indefinitely." He can't stay the weekend, not if Andrew wants to retain his sanity.

"I can stay here as long as I like!" his father bellows from down the hall. "You owe me your existence!"

" _Bien fait, Papa_!" Andrew yells back, then mutters, " _Merde alors_."

" _Just breathe, okay? I'll go out to Dad and see if he makes more sense in person_ ," Monica says. " _Good luck with Papa_."

"Thanks," Andrew says, and hangs up. He makes the call in to say he's working from home today, and hangs up again, wishing he could throw his mobile out the sodding window. He's actually holding it contemplatively when his father walks back into the room, holding the baby, who is in a brand new outfit. "Are you actually going to tell me what's going on?" he asks.

"No," his father says, setting the baby in his saucer. He sits on the sofa and looks up at Andrew expectantly. "Explain to me what you're working on."

Andrew covers his face and makes a wounded noise, praying to whoever might listen that Monica is already on her way. 

 

.  


Papa has a knack for driving Andrew to utter distraction. An hour in and he's already critiqued everything from the detergent Andrew is using for George's clothes, to the play gym (which Kelly brought over, but ohhh as if his father would ever say anything against _Kelly_ ), to the bottles his son prefers.

Papa is just getting into a long winded discussion on breast feeding versus bottle feeding, as if he's some sort of expert, when Andrew's phone miraculously, gloriously, rings.

" _Mayday, mayday_ ," Monica says into the phone. " _Andrew, I'm sorry_."

"What? What's going on?" Andrew demands.

The bell rings, and Papa leaps to his feet like he's been electrocuted.

When Andrew opens the door he isn't expecting Dad, shirt askew and face as red as a tomato, so angry he looks like he's T-minus ten seconds from maximum implosion. Monica is behind him, looking about as contrite as she can, which isn’t very.

Dad doesn't acknowledge Andrew, or the baby, just _glaring_ at Papa in a way that is eerily familiar -- it's the way Kelly looks at Andrew when she thinks he's being, in her own words, 'a fucking idiot'. "Get in the car," he says, calmly, the kind of calm that's as terrifying as it is mesmerizing. It's like a train wreck -- Andrew can't look away.

Papa stands and glares right back, prim and prissy as ever. He gets his coat, his scarf, and heads out the door, passing Dad with a single look down his nose. "Put the bag in the trunk, Andrew."

"What?" Andrew blurts -- he'd been expecting an explosion, the kind of rows that his parents used to have in Baker Street that could be heard clear across the street. "That's it?"

Papa huffs and Dad limps heavily behind him, like a tiny defective soldier. Somehow, he isn't any less terrifying. Andrew hands off the baby to Monica and hauls the suitcase into the trunk, wondering if Papa actually packed bricks in there. He wouldn't be surprised.

Papa climbs into the car and so does Dad, and just like that, without another word said, they leave, driving down the street and around the corner.

Andrew blinks. "That has to be the most creepily docile thing I've ever seen him do," he says in awe. His sister nods shakily and Andrew groans, rubbing his face. "Dammit. I'll call Lucy, you tell Beau. I can't get out there until Saturday -- we're in the middle of getting the new hadron collider blueprints finished. Meet out there at eight?"

Monica nods, hands the baby back with a shudder. "It's like the Twilight Zone," she says with a shake of her head.


End file.
